To Remind Me

I know I can be outspoken when I've got the bit between my teeth; but even I am invariably on the losing end of any argument that sees me trying to defend Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep as a credible pop single, a worthy Number One and, not, in any way, the template for Agadoo.

Sally Carr's clarion call, all the better for its discernible Lanarkshire lilt, enthralled me then and enthralls me still. Her yellow crochet hot pants may or may not have played a part also.

And although Middle of the Road were seen by many as a one trick pony, you'd be hard pushed to find any current recording artist out there who has shifted a combined 7 million copies of their first three singles.

I rediscovered this well woven little number yesterday while trying in vain to introduce some semblance of order into a record collection which, let me assure you, has never been described as middle of the road.

Middle of the Road - To Remind Me

Ear Worms

I was following a thread on The Word blog recently about those pesky tunes that get lodged in your brain and steadfastly refuse to leave. And it's an affliction for which there is no cure. Even deafness wouldn't get rid of them - once they're in, that's it. I have many pieces of music (sometimes only brief snippets) that nudge their way from the deep recesses of my brain and take centre stage. This is one I share with Quentin Cooper of Radio 4's Material World: despite not having heard it since I was a nipper, I still know it note for note.



Quentin ran a feature on Ear Worms and the feedback the following week was fascinating. Musical memories from our childhood right through to music played at funerals, pulling in hits of the day, muzak, radio jingles, cheesy advert music and (most interestingly) tunes you can't abide - they all find a way into our heads and take up residency. Play School aside, here's another one that gets regular airplay, creeping up on me when I least expect it:



Middle Of The Road's Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep was a massive hit in the summer of 1971 and coincided with the Medds' first ever European jaunt to Spain. And at the tender age of nine I was aware that it wasn't only us Brits who were getting off on bubblegum pop: every cafe, diner and bar my parents took me to during the hottest fortnight I'd ever experienced, all I could hear was Chirpy Bloody Cheep Cheep. On the flight back something strange happened - I'd got a window seat and was trying to sleep with my head leaning against the window when, all of a sudden, the tune started playing; it wasn't coming out over the tannoy and there was nobody next to me with a transistor radio jammed to their lug hole. No, what I was experiencing was my own, very primitive, 'in-flight entertainment.' Forty years later and I still can't find the off button.